Desert Rose

by Laura Taylor

  "Tell me what you want," Emma urged in a soft voice a few moments later.

  "Want… you. Need… you."

  She immediately extended her hand. David felt the brush of her fingertips. He clasped her wrist before encompassing her slender hand with his own. His exhalation of relief echoed in the cellblock.

  Neither spoke as unspoken emotions flowed between them. They remained physically and emotionally linked as the dawn emerged and the sun burst onto the horizon of the early–morning Middle Eastern sky.

  5

  "I’d give anything to take a shower and wash my hair," Emma announced in a fit of frustration several days later.

  "Fantasy time, babe."

  David’s reply grated on her already frayed nerves. She stomped back and forth in her cell. When she heard him chuckle, she nearly gave into the urge to familiarize him with a full–blown Irish Italian temper tantrum.

  "I can’t stand being so filthy. It’s making me crazy."

  "Use your imagination," he suggested. "Pretend you’re relaxing in an enormous hot tub filled with warm, bubbling water. It’s the closest you’re going to get to clean until we blow this pop stand." David laughed. "It’ll also give me something to imagine."

  "Not good enough," she protested.

  "You don’t have any other options," he reminded her. "Deprivation’s the rule of thumb around here, but I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, am I?"

  The compassion in his voice took some of the edge off her frustration. Emma stopped her restless pacing and returned to her pallet. She took deep, cleansing breaths and made an effort to calm down.

  "David, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be such an infant, but I don’t know how much more of this I can stand. It’s been three weeks, and no one’s tried to rescue us. The Red Cross hasn’t even shown up to conduct an inspection. Surely my parents or Child Feed realize by now that I’ve gone missing. Why isn’t someone doing something?"

  "We can only hope."

  "I know," she whispered bleakly. "I know you’re right."

  "How about a book or a movie?" he asked a short while later. "Might help pass the time."

  She slumped forward and rested her head in her hands. Although she knew he wouldn’t force the issue, she called upon what remained of her dwindling good humor and forced herself to cooperate. She owed him that much at the very least.

  Emma lifted her head and asked, "What’s your pleasure, Major?"

  "A sexy flick," he promptly replied.

  She laughed, the first positive sound to emerge from her in several hours. "You’re absolutely hopeless. How about something more cerebral or a thriller with a knockout heroine?"

  "Since it’s your turn, you make the decision."

  She weighed her options. "Okay then, let’s test your memory bank. Do you remember Part Two of The Devastator series?"

  "Who could forget? Milos Bekenberger as a muscle–bound cyborg, and Cara Stone as the pumped–up mother of a boy destined to save the planet. Everybody had great pecs in that movie, especially the kid’s mother. She was dy–no–mite."

  Emma groaned. "Talk about a one–track mind."

  "You may be right." His tone contained just enough leer to make her laugh.

  Feeling more relaxed, Emma began to recount the movie. What she couldn’t remember, she made up for with excruciating details about the parts she did.

  David periodically chimed in with both suggestive remarks and insightful comments about the film. Emma reclaimed her sense of humor as they talked, and David unknowingly soothed her restless emotions with the warmth and resonance of the low, gravel–rough voice she’d grown to love.

  They lingered at the end, critiquing the pacing of the movie and the performances of the actors. And they agreed, as was often the case, that filmgoers and readers preferred the validation of their belief that good would ultimately triumph over evil. Given their current situation, it was a philosophy they both needed to hold on to.

  Emma took a sip of water from her tin cup to wet her mouth before she got to her feet and prowled the confines of her cell once more. She eventually came to a stop in the corner, hungry for physical contact with David but reluctant to impose her needs on him. Although he insisted that he’d completely recovered from his most recent interrogation, she didn’t believe him. She knew he still tired easily.

  "Babe?"

  She gripped the iron bars of her cell. "Yes?"

  "You okay?"

  "I’ll live."

  He exhaled, the sound harsh in the quiet of the cellblock. "That’s not what I asked."

  "Self–pity’s a wretched idea, so don’t get me started down that road again," she cautioned.

  "Do you need me?"

  A shiver of expectation rippled through Emma. She knew he was asking if she wanted to hold hands. Had he already guessed that she longed to share far more with him? Did he realize that she yearned to walk straight into his arms and make love with him?

  "Is your shoulder bothering you?"

  "Not to worry. It’s almost a hundred percent."

  "I do worry," she admitted as she positioned herself between the cell wall and the bars. She extended her arm, feeling the clasp of David’s large hand as it closed over hers a moment later. She sighed, grateful for his touch.

  Her eyes fell closed. Slowly, surely, and with the silence borne of total concentration, he soothed and aroused her with the sensuality of his touch. Nudging her hand to the left, he slid his fingertips to the back of her hand, around the plump ridge of flesh at the base of her thumb, and then into the center of her palm.

  Emma held her breath while he traced expanding circles of sensation into her sensitive skin, sensations that sent her pulse racing and her blood pounding through her veins. She closed her hand, capturing his fingers. She gathered them together so that the tips rested in the center of her cupped palm, slowly stroking the length of his fingers with the smooth edges of her nails. She stroked up and down… up and down… up and down… until she heard him groan. The primal sound stirred her to the depths of her soul, her body melting with need.

  She felt his hand tremble, but he didn’t pull away. A shudder of arousal swept over her like a brushfire. She heard his ragged exhalation, felt the tremors that shook his body. A sensual lethargy began to envelop her.

  Tingling warmth drifted across her palm, up her arm, and into her body. Biting her lip to smother a cry of need, Emma felt her breasts swell and her nipples tighten.

  Heat swirled inside her. Flames ignited deep within, scorching her nerve endings and shattering what remained of her composure. Tears filled her eyes. She teetered between seductive torment and the emotional anguish of trying to deny her desire for David.

  Emma ached with hunger. Tears spilled form her eyes and trailed down her cheeks. "David…" she breathed, her voice riddled with desire and frustration and a hundred other unvoiced emotions.

  David fought his own battle for control. His breathing grew even more ragged. He laced their fingers together, but he said nothing. He couldn’t.

  Emma swallowed her tears. "Forgive me."

  "Nothing… to forgive," he finally managed through gritted teeth. "You’re the most volatile thing I’ve ever touched, Emma Hamilton."

  "Should I apologize?"

  He laughed, but the sound ended on a low groan. He needed her so badly, his body screamed for release. "I wouldn’t want you any other way."

  They remained connected for several silent minutes. The call to prayers sounded over the loudspeaker in the adjacent courtyard, but neither Emma nor David moved.

  "Were you telling me the truth before?" she asked softly.

  "About what?"

  "Your shoulder really is better?"

  "Yeah, and the bruises are starting to fade. I’m not quite as multi–hued as I was a few days ago."

  "And you aren’t having any trouble walking or breathing?" she pressed, still concerned that he might try to protect her from the truth.

 
"No, Doctor Hamilton," he teased. "No trouble at all on either score."

  "David, this is important. Those men could have caused you severe internal damage of some kind."

  "My ego and my pride took the brunt of the beating."

  "I know," she murmured. "I just worry about you, and since I can’t see for myself that you’re alright, I wind up asking you a lot of boring questions that drive you nuts."

  David hesitated for a moment. "My turn to ask a question."

  "Go ahead."

  "What would you say if I told you that I want to make love to you?"

  "You do… every single time you touch me," she said.

  "It does feel that way most of the time, doesn’t it?"

  "Yes."

  "I want more, Emma. So much more."

  "Me, too."

  "You’re all I think about."

  She teased, "When you’re not dreaming of rare steaks, hot showers, and a firm mattress?"

  His voice, part gravel and part groan, seemed to grown more intense. "You really think about me that way?"

  "Constantly."

  He admitted, "I didn’t realize…"

  "How could you not?"

  "You seem reluctant to talk about it."

  She sighed, the sound as soft as an intimate caress. "Only because I’m afraid we won’t ever have a chance to… to make love."

  "Why?"

  She stared at the iron bars of her cell. "That’s kind of obvious, isn’t it?"

  "That’s not what I meant. Why do you want to make love with me?"

  "Because I care about you, and I want you." Because I’m falling in love with you, she wanted to say, but she managed to bite back the words. He’d think she was insane.

  "Have you ever been in love?" he asked in a hushed voice.

  "Once, or so I thought. Now, I know it was nothing more than an infatuation."

  "When did it end?"

  "A few years ago. He wasn’t willing to understand that I needed more than our time together to feel complete as a person."

  "Sounds selfish."

  She nodded. "Yes, he was."

  "Was he the same guy who accused you of not having time for a real life?"

  "Good memory," she remarked. "He made that comment while he was packing his things and moving out of our apartment. At the time I was devastated, especially since I’d already given up so much of my work with Child Feed in order to spend more time with him. He didn’t think I’d cut back far enough. I guess he assumed that I should have been satisfied to devote my entire existence to him. When I refused, he walked out."

  "The cretin did you a favor," David muttered.

  Emma smiled; he was right. "I realize that now, but I certainly didn’t when it all happened. I spent way too much time licking my wounds and feeling inadequate as a woman. The experience also made me pretty gun–shy with other men. I’ve avoided getting entangled with anyone else since then."

  He slipped his fingers free and trailed the tips across the back of her hand before bringing them to rest against the delicate inner curve of her wrist. "What do I make you feel?" he asked after absorbing the jump of her pulse.

  She felt seduced anew by the rough sensuality of his voice. "Everything. I don’t even know where to start."

  He remained silent for a moment. "What did you mean when you said I was a part of you?"

  Surprised by his question, Emma considered her reply. In the end, she concluded that their situation was too uncertain for her not to be candid with him.

  "When the guards took you away," Emma began, "I was terrified I’d never see you again. That’s when I realized how connected I felt to you. You’re in my heart," she whispered as his hand closed over her narrow wrist. "You, David Winslow, are now a permanent part of me."

  "Maybe you're just suffering from some bizarre version of Stockholm syndrome. Has it occurred to you that you might not want any reminders, and that includes me, of this place once we make it home?"

  "That’s absurd," she protested. "You’re not my jailer. You are my ally and my most trusted confidant. Jailers don’t hold hands with their prisoners, console them after nightmares, make them feel safe in an impossibly dangerous environment, try to protect them, or share their survival skills."

  He laughed, but the sound contained no humor. "You don’t have too many other options for friendship at the moment."

  She searched for and found the right words to express a truth that she’d already confronted. "This is more than friendship. You fill me with hope, and you strengthen my determination to survive this place and these people so that we’ll be free to explore what I think we both have begun to feel for each other."

  The silence that followed nearly deafened her, but she waited—waited for him to speak, waited for him to wrestle with his surprise at her honesty.

  "I want that, too."

  The sudden squeal of the cellblock’s door made her jerk with surprise. "Oh, God! Please, not again."

  David gripped her wrist as footsteps sounded at the far end of the hallway. "Listen!" he ordered, his voice like a sharp blade.

  "To what?" she gasped.

  "Two sets of footsteps."

  She concentrated on the sound, and what he was trying to tell her finally penetrated the fear spiking inside of her.

  "Whatever’s going on, the guards are moving more slowly than usual, aren’t they, Emma?"

  "Yes."

  "Step back from the bars and into the shadows. If we’re really lucky, this might be the food they neglected to bring us yesterday. If it’s not, don’t panic and don’t let them know you’re frightened."

  Emma gave David’s hand a quick squeeze of acknowledgement before she released it. Slipping out of her corner, she worked her way down the cell wall and stepped into the shadows at the rear of the shoe–box shaped enclosure. Her heart thudded wildly against her ribs, her hands fisted at her sides, and her empty stomach growled at the prospect of a crust of unleavened bread or a bowl of watery broth.

  Two young men clad in ill–fitting uniforms paused before Emma’s cell. They peered into the cell, their curiosity about her evident. Although they carried weapons, neither one seemed inclined to wave them at her in a threatening manner, which was the custom of the other guards.

  If anything, they appeared awkward and uncertain. New recruits, she decided. One stepped forward and fumbled with the rusty lock of her cell door. He slid open the door, seized her, and propelled her forward into the hallway.

  "Emma?" David said. "You okay?"

  "So far," she answered, her eyes darting between the two uniformed youths. "I don’t understand what’s happening. Where are they taking me?"

  "Stay calm," he urged. "Don’t antagonize them."

  She looked back, spotting David’s powerful, white knuckled hands as he gripped the bars of his cell. "They’re not as mean or experienced as the other guards," she managed to say before one of the guards clapped a dirty hand over her mouth.

  "You’ll be alright, babe."

  Emma jerked free, crying, "David, don’t forget me!"

  "Never, Emma. Never!"

  They hustled her out of the cellblock and down an endless succession of hallways. Five minutes later, the youthful guards shoved her through an open doorway.

  She stumbled and fell forward, landing on her hands and knees just as the door to the room slammed shut behind her. She heard the lock being secured in the same instant that she noticed the two women who towered over her. Clad in the native garb of concealing burqas and abayas, both women held deadly looking handguns and glared down at her.

  Scuttling backward, Emma scanned the room and searched for an avenue of escape. But all she saw were sealed windows at the top of tiled walls and an ancient water spigot mounted high on the far wall.

  She retreated as the two women advanced on her. Even when the wall she backed into forced her to stop, the women kept advancing. She cringed when one of them reached out and jerked on the sleeve of her blouse. The second woman s
tepped aside to turn on the nearby showerhead. Her companion waved the unfriendly end of her weapon in Emma’s face just before she hauled her to her feet, spat an order at her in some Arabic dialect, and then shoved her under the cold water.

  Emma decided against removing her clothes. Modesty, she knew, was stressed in the Middle East, especially among Muslim women. She spotted a wedge of soap in a basket on the floor and reached for it.

  She clumsily scrubbed at her clothes and her hair. One of the women yelled at her and made emphatic motions with her weapon; the other one clawed yet again at her soggy clothing. She complied with their obvious expectations.

  Shedding her clothes, she kept her gaze averted and hurriedly washed her body. Her face burned with outrage as she prayed that she would soon be returned to her cell and David.

  Emma remained silent as the shower was turned off. Shivering, she gathered up the pile of sodden garments at her feet, but it was snatched out of her hands.

  After being prodded forward with a gun pressed into her lower spine, she followed one of the women to a cabinet on the far side of the room. Once there, she received a voluminous black cloak and a veil–like garment known as a burqa. Although still dripping wet, Emma dressed quickly. She scooped up her clothes before being marched out of the shower room, down a short hallway, and outside to a deserted courtyard.

  She hesitated as the two women made themselves comfortable across from one another on wooden benches. They looked on, expressionless and their weapons still pointed at her, as she draped her wet clothing across an unused bench. Emma scanned the area to be sure there were no men in the vicinity before she slipped the burqa off her head and finger–combed her long hair. The light breeze and pleasant midday sun should have felt therapeutic, but they did nothing to ease her fear.

  Her thoughts repeatedly strayed to David. While she longed for an end to her imprisonment, she knew she would find little satisfaction in freedom if he remained a captive. Surely their captors realized that, if they released her, she wouldn’t remain silent about him. If anything, she would shout his status and location to the world until they were reunited.